The room felt smaller than it was — quiet except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan and John’s uneven breathing. He’d been pacing for nearly ten minutes before finally sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed.

You could see it — the tightness in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed like he was trying to hold something back. Whatever storm was brewing inside him, it wasn’t just anger.

“John,” you said softly, stepping closer. “You’ve been on edge all day. What’s going on?”

He lifted his head, and for a second, the look in his eyes made your breath catch. There was heat there — frustration, guilt, something almost feral — but under it, exhaustion.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Everything feels… amplified. Loud. My heartbeat, my thoughts—hell, even being near you.”

You froze at that. His voice dropped lower, rougher. “It’s like I can’t think straight when you’re around.”

The space between you seemed to vibrate with tension. You took another step closer, your knee brushing against his. He looked up then, eyes locking on yours. Neither of you moved.

“John,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed, a muscle twitching as if he was fighting with himself. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said quietly, voice strained.

“Like what?”

“Like you know what’s happening to me.”

You didn’t — not really. But standing there, so close you could feel his breath, it didn’t matter. The air was heavy with everything unspoken — all the things he wasn’t saying, all the things you weren’t supposed to feel.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, humming with energy. Then John stood abruptly, putting a hand on your shoulder — not rough, but firm, grounding himself.

“I need to clear my head,” he said, though his voice shook slightly. “Before I do something I’ll regret.”

And then he walked past you, leaving you staring after him, your pulse matching the pounding rhythm of his retreating footsteps.

“John, let me help…”

Your voice was quiet, almost pleading. He froze mid-stride, back to you, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer.

When he finally turned around, the look in his eyes stopped you cold — all that frustration and heat twisted together with something rawer. Vulnerability.

“You can’t,” he said, but the words lacked conviction.